


Turpentine

by cosmotronic



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Loving Sex, Neurodiversity, Non-Explicit Sex, Physical Abuse, Romance, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: she wonders if love can be a good hurt, ever





	1. Purple Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Please** check the tags and hit the back arrow if you don't want to know.
> 
> Holtz gets put through the wringer in this one. I’m sorry. It gets (a bit) better.
> 
> Erin comes along later and is a ray of fucking sunshine, I promise.
> 
> x

 

they spin together, for a while

the seasons change at least a couple of times so it's not a little while

she doesn't know when it became a thing, doesn't know when they became a thing, she only knows that after a while she was waking up at Her place and it felt right

it felt safe

She takes care of her

brings her winks and smiles and coffee how she likes it and helps her decipher the order of the world and the habits of the people, helps her deal with the march of the clock and reminds her of mealtimes and that she needs to sleep, sometimes

tethers her, sometimes

and she never thought she needed looking after but things do seem simpler this way, when she doesn't need to choose or worry, or check what she is doing is right

it feels nice

She listens when she talks, too, and that is different, and she listens to Her

she can’t always read Her face but She explains her thoughts well, tells her what She is thinking and it’s very helpful and kind and considerate

 

_– I'm not angry, Jillian –_

 

and not everyone can do that, not everyone can slow down enough to tell her and speed up enough so she can show them in return, and she's always been better at showing than telling

She tells her what she is thinking too and those thoughts don't seem to match her feelings, but She must be right because She’s not so much of a mess

 

_– You're frustrated, Jillian –_

 

She reminds her how to act, how to behave, maybe how to be a bit more normal and although she never thought of herself as abnormal

 

_– Stop being weird, Jillian –_

 

maybe She is right and she should take more care not to be an embarrassment when they are together because she has always had an easy energy and it flows from her into her projects, her actions, her deeds, spurring every tiny motion and every burst from her lips

and then sometimes there is too much energy and it overspills, messy and inappropriate and people laugh and it feels good, but She says they're not laughing with her

so she copies how the others act and what they say and how they shape their faces and it's a good disguise, even when her fingers twitch and betray her and She clicks her tongue and she tries to hold herself still, steel chains wrapping her muscles

it's not hard to learn to be normal, to be good, because She is patient and She helps by slapping her hands down gently when she uses them to speak too loudly

if an animal can learn, she thinks

and it's not all learning; they have fun too, within the boundaries of acceptable

they share sights and experiences, walk and run and smile through the points of their relationship and from time to time She will rest a steadying hand on her arm, wrap cool fingers about her and lock her into a moment they can enjoy, together

 

_– We have fun, don't we Jillian? –_

 

they do

but there is a time and a place and the place is not Her place

She takes her tools away, and that hurts because it is like cutting off her fingers but it is for the best because She can cauterise the wound before infection spreads

and her goofy little cereal box toys are gone and her musty old records and all but one set of her goggles but it’s okay, she doesn’t need any of that because she’s got Her

her snacks are gone too, and her tongue misses the sharp rasp of salty chips and she misses the crunch of popcorn in the hand and under her teeth and the bright rattle of the candies in the packet

replaced with tastes that are smooth and bland and soft and it's like everything She has, too smooth and bland and soft and quiet and still

it suffocates, sometimes, and maybe that should be the first clue but she is blind and she touches now like she is wearing rubber gloves and she thinks that maybe that is why the depth of her reality isn't there

it’s a shame because she’s always loved the layers of the universe and how a thousand snowflake shapes can jigsaw into a whole that works for everyone

and she’s applied that theory to herself before, mismatched and odd, thrift store and one of a kind to clothe whoever she feels like being that day

 

_– It’s not very you, Jillian –_

 

and she thinks it is too much her, and that is the problem, but she agrees and nods her head

and hides her pendant, her middle finger cast in steel no longer fit for purpose

and dresses like the women in the clothing stores, where she doesn’t like to go often because there’s too many fabric landscapes to paint her fingers along and She doesn’t have all day

she will have all day, every day, though, because She thinks it would be better for her to re-evaluate her career and that’s almost a joke because she’s never thought about her work, her inventions, her babies as a career before

they are her life

but something less excitable and more regular would suit their life, She says

 

_– Abby doesn’t really need you, Jillian –_

 

but she drags her heels because she really does like her work and she likes her lab and she likes her friend and, really, that should be the next clue because she thinks she might like them more than Her, sometimes, and that must only be possible if she is broken

or they are broken

but blessed or not she continues to spark and leap and dazzle with her ideas and they crash out of her one after another into forms of sheet metal and copper circuits and twists of wire and glows of radiation and it is brilliant but it can be dangerous, sometimes

but that’s just another layer to the universe; the sharp bits that poke through, sometimes

she comes home bearing marks one day; a few small singes round the edges and a deep cut on her hand

it’ll scar

She is concerned

 

_– I’m not angry, Jillian –_

 

it must be true, still, even though she thinks she can read the flicker at the corner of Her eye, the curl of Her lip

it would be okay if She was angry, because she is reckless, should have thought how it would upset Her before being so careless

 

_– I’m concerned for you, Jillian –_

 

and She should be because people will see the marks and ask and she will have to explain how stupid she has been

She is clever

She leaves marks that don’t scar

a closed fist and a powerful arm but a flat impact, so the knuckles don’t bite, and a deep thud in the empty space above her kidneys or against her sternum

She leaves marks that don’t show

there was a time she enjoyed a mark on her face or her neck, a lip worried by teeth or a loving purple bloom on her throat and she’d wear the marks proudly, brag about them even

she can’t wear her lover’s favour now because She doesn’t kiss her like that and that should be a hint, as well

so she wears the marks that don’t show, even if she can feel them for days, mocking under her clothes and agonising in the jumbled logic centre of her brain, and she wonders if that is right or whether she should strike back

she is smaller but younger, fitter, stronger than Her and could strike back fierce and final if there was a reason to

there isn't any reason to, and She doesn’t say sorry because there’s nothing to apologise for and it must seem strange to some but she likes the pain

she enjoys the open palm after all, always did, and so it must be normal to enjoy the bruise too

to get wet when she’s curled beneath the fist

and it must be a good thing when all is said and done because She always takes care of her afterwards, strokes her hair and tells her what a good girl she has been, or will be

She wouldn’t do that if She didn’t love her and they do love each other, like she imagines normal people must do

when they have sex

and she likes sex, has always searched and sought out the thrill of the kiss and more, the display of desire and the dance of two warm bodies to a private rhythm

when the curves and dips of hot flesh are the most exotic things her hands have passed over, when the skin on the inside of a thigh is the softest thing her lips have encountered, when the coarseness of short curls tickle her fingertips and the pebbles of hard nipples press at her palms

when a slow build of wet slickens her touch or a sudden burst runs tang and sweet over her tongue

when there is a flutter about her fingers and a biting suction on her neck and a mewl in her ear and a spark in the near distance or crackling behind her eyes

it is a bomb, the universe packed into a hand grenade and tossed into her bed and she used to think she was good at pulling that pin, at making people feel the shock and awe that she feels

at approaching each encounter like a puzzle to be wondered over and admired for its complexity, and an optimal solution mapped out and shown through the simple joy of discovery

she always did like to show, and that is no different, with Her

she initiates, most of the time, and when she’s not pushed away, when She allows her touch it is to show Her how much she loves Her

She uses her mouth, twists fingers in her hair and shoves her down

 

_– Get me off, then, Jillian –_

 

she always does

 

_– Good girl, Jillian –_

 

it’s hot chocolate in her ear, but the milk sours

 

_– Sort yourself out, Jillian –_

 

and she’s pushed aside to do just that more often than not, but sometimes She will fuck her; and she is grateful and it always hurts

a good hurt, she thinks, because it makes her feel

She won’t use Her mouth but Her fingers are a rough bite and she can feel the bumps of Her knuckles and the swirls and whorls on the pads of Her fingertips

She is harsh and quick, but she loves it because it is sharp and real even though reality can be too much, sometimes

once it starts they won’t stop until She is done with her but that’s okay, because she has come to Her and she should always finish what she starts

she says stop, sometimes, but it’s a foreign babble from her lips, babel in Her ear

stop doesn’t mean stop

but that’s okay as well, because She knows the meaning behind her jumbled words better than she ever will; She understands her, the only one who ever did, the only one who knows what she really needs

and as she comes around Her fingers, too many and rough inside her, she tells herself it’s what bliss feels like but she doesn’t scream when she comes, she bites her tongue instead and presses her lips, because only whores are loud

but she can’t help the whimper breaking free

more

more might mean a soft touch or a tender word or it might mean no more but she won’t ever get any more, she doesn’t deserve it

when she disappoints Her, she is punished

the blindfold is a punishment, she learns; not a game like the open palm or a control like the closed fist, but a torture and a red hot knife against the soft underbelly of her perceptions

She will tie her and blind her and go

left her tied up and blinded and went, once; she heard the door slam shut

and she could have withstood the torture when there was a footstep or a breath or the subtle displacement of air in the surroundings to distract her

but alone

the crushing emptiness surges up to pull on the threads of time and on the extremities of her body, stripping her down to her molecules and working wider the little bits between, fragments scattered and the remains stretched out into a single dimension

it is a black hole from which she cannot escape; there is nowhere to escape to, because the world and all around her has already been sucked in ahead of her

and the scarf is over her ears too, and all the sounds are heard as through a slab of concrete rather than silk, distorted

the bird outside the window, a derisive, hollow commentary to her imprisonment

the garbage truck down the street, a crashing monster of fang and claw chomping at earth and sky and creature and at the door, now

she tries desperately to ground herself, scrabbling for solidity and reality, because in the cold, hard, scientific part of her brain she knows she is safe

she doesn’t feel safe

she rubs her skin on the soft sheets, as much as the bonds will allow her, and it’s too quiet and smooth on her pores but it is something in the black

tugs on the binding on her wrist, tugs tight until it burns, and that is something too

hums over the din, and that is something and it is all the harmony she can add because there are echoes of Her words tying her tongue

 

_– Be good, Jillian –_

 

and she tries, but one day she just can't

she is too afraid, afraid of the black hole and she flinches before the fist and pushes back, just enough until finally She says that it is not enough

that she is too broken and wrong to be loved by Her

that she is not worthy of Her, any more

so she is cast to lie in broken ruin, and it hurts like nothing has ever hurt before, and she thinks that it will never be a good hurt, in the end

 

Abby doesn’t question why she curls up under her desk at night, now, just takes her hand on the second morning, careful

she doesn’t have to tell, Abby says

 

_– They won't ever understand you, Jillian –_

 

she doesn’t have to ask for anything, Abby says

 

_– They only ever pity you, Jillian –_

 

but she can if she wants to, Abby says

 

_– They will never love you, Jillian –_

 

she’s not alone, Abby says

 

_– You don't deserve love, Jillian –_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk.
> 
> I'll be back with my favourite Subby Cupcake Holtz and Scrumptious Crumpet Erin soon, please don't fret. I could never leave them. I just.
> 
> idk.


	2. In Your Haze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erin's here to shine a light in the black.
> 
> It's still sad, but there's a hope.
> 
> x

 

it’s years later, Holtz knows because the seasons have flicked past a few times and a few times more since then

Holtz has found purpose, of a sort

they saved the world and they are three then four and five, now; Holtz and Abby and Erin and Kevin and Patty

Holtz doesn’t dare name it when it happens, but the thing with Erin becomes a thing after a while, and it feels right

it feels safe

Abby warns her, implores her to be careful

not because Erin will hurt Holtz on purpose but because there’s only a field dressing over her heart; even after so long Holtz hasn’t braved the surgery

because Holtz is still a collection of ugly fragments in her own eye, unworthy and unlovable in her own perception

and because Erin is a little bit fractured too, and maybe there are too many sharp edges there

Holtz is careful, wary; slips into a disguise pulled from a collage of herself, an easy flirt and a silly performance and a cloak spun from brilliance and wit

Holtz chooses a mask

 

_– Hello, who are you? –_

 

and she has so many masks, mirrored faces of the others but this one is the closest to her real skin, Holtz thinks

she isn’t sure; it has been so very long since she has danced this masquerade

but it’s comfortable on her face so it’ll do and her hands play to their own tune and her body sashays like it was born to do and her energy spills all around the imperfect edges of the mask and rages with all the force of a tsunami, channelled into her projects and her babies and into all the ways they save the world and it washes over Erin, too

and Erin staggers

but Erin doesn't shush Holtz with a slap, instead Erin looks at her with something so far removed from embarrassment Holtz is sure it must be a lie

 

_– I'm so proud of you –_

 

and holds her hands lightly and dances with her, riotous and free and Erin blushes, so prettily, and laughs and Holtz knows Erin is always laughing with her

Holtz thinks she understands Erin, most of the time

and when she doesn't, Holtz wonders if it is her fault because it isn’t easy to match a narrowed eye or a curved lip with a word and Erin doesn't tell Holtz what she is feeling, not all the time, so she gets it wrong and waits apprehensively for the sharp reminder

but Erin is so patient

 

_– It’s not you –_

 

it's not Erin's fault either because Erin has things that hurt, some patched up dark pieces hiding in the cold shadow of her soul

Holtz wants to take those black fragments and add them to her own to be swallowed, so Erin can be free and pure

Erin listens when Holtz speaks, hand on chin and smile in her gaze and she tells Holtz everything in the crinkle at the corner of her eye and the sunlight pouring from her lips

and basking in Erin’s glow, Holtz thinks Erin could understand her too

because Erin cranks her handle to Holtz's rhythm, sped up and slowed down to synchronise their sound and their motion, all twenty-four frames a second of their story shot with a shaky hand but run back smooth and soft

Erin takes it all into herself and studies it, but they both know an object observed is changed by the mere act of doing so

 

_– What do you think? –_

 

and Holtz feels herself alive and dead and uncertain

and inexorably changing, end-state irreversibly altered; not to suit another's expectations or perceptions or desires, but contoured to the exact shape of her soul, shed of all disguise

it is freeing, like a shackle dropped in the dirt or cold fingers removed from a wrist and it's nowhere near normal, but it's okay

it’s terrifying, but it’s okay

Holtz can strip away layers to reach the soft core; it’s what she does with her ideas to make her inventions, so to do it to herself should be easy

if Erin can do it, Holtz thinks, then she owes Erin to try

she’s digging deeper than ever with her work too, because Erin likes to peel back the universe just as much as Holtz, if not more, and Holtz takes her challenge with a seriousness

they are in there, somewhere, Erin and Holtz, buried beneath layers

the universe bites at her scrabbling fingers, one day, a scorch in her face and a deep red line across her palm

She is long gone, taking Her concern to another but still she hides it from Her, a reflex

but Erin sees the mark later, makes a little noise and she scrambles, apologies tripping from her all reckless and careless and stupid

 

_– It’s going to be okay –_

 

Holtz shakes her head and stares as Erin presses and worries and cleans

she hisses at the antiseptic sting when it strikes, bites her tongue and presses her lips, because only children are loud

Erin falters and Holtz knows she sees the other marks, the ones writ in skin and the ones knit in bone, and Erin runs her thumb along the faded silver on her hand, ridge and whorl on dead flesh, kisses the new hurt and the old

Erin kisses Holtz, then, lips softly abrading on hers, on her soul, nudging at her, teasing her until it is though Holtz is standing at a precipice, back to the void and toes scrunched into the dirt

then Holtz kisses Erin too, tugs her one step further and for a minute they are simply

suspended

and time doesn’t flow in the proper manner and the world spins up and over on its axis and Holtz falls

it is a messy tumble as they plummet, hot breath and tongues and Erin bites her lower lip, sharp little points in her flesh and they break away before they smash into the earth

Erin holds her close for just long enough and then Holtz pushes her away, because Erin’s arms about her waist are resting over an old bruise long since faded but the agony is real and itching and familiar, and Erin sighs and Holtz can hear disappointment

or it could be sadness

 

_– I’ll never mean to hurt you –_

 

it’s not a promise of no pain to come, because Holtz knows that Erin knows that such a promise would be a fallacy when they are so jagged and cracked

it is a simpler promise that Holtz can believe, and it is beautiful and precious and Holtz keeps it close to her darkness as they dance

they don't ever go further than the dance and the kiss, content to repeat and perfect the steps they know

Erin offers herself like a live grenade, of the sort Holtz used to juggle with, of the sort that She disarmed

 

_– It’s okay to touch me –_

 

the pin is pulled but Holtz wraps her hand around tightly, holds the spoon with a dead man’s grip, binds the potential

Erin doesn’t pry her fingers open

 

_– Whenever you’re ready –_

 

even if Holtz is never ready

Erin touches herself, tries to hide it but Holtz hears her

 

_– Holtz –_

 

She never said her name, not like that, not her real name slipping out so softly and sadly, a careless whisper drenched in need

and then Holtz can't bear it any longer, the slow-cooked grenade scorching flesh from her with every moment, and she touches Erin, knocks Erin’s hand aside and drops to her knees and breathes

and it’s like breathing in sunshine

to flow through her and burst from her own body

to light the black and let her see

and although her brows are knit and her lids are squeezed shut, as her hand brushes the skin of Erin’s hip she can see

and as the air gentles over her tongue, carrying the taste of Erin’s want, she can see

and as she presses her face to the top of Erin’s thigh, silk under her cheek and a shiver under her hot breath and coarseness tickling her nose, she can see

Holtz can see everything through the pores of her skin and the lick of the waves in her ear, hearts beating, blood flowing, a gasp and a sigh and a whimper and her name again, again, again

there's the tiniest touch on her head, then, a stroke over her hair and a gentle intertwining of fingers and gold

 

_– Right there, please –_

 

Erin stiffens, and cries out and gives Holtz everything and even as she savours the sweetness Holtz is moving away, head bowed and fingers itching towards her open fly, towards her own bitter release

she'll be quiet, and she'll be good, she won't bother Her

 

_– Let me take care of you –_

 

Erin touches her thigh and she flinches beneath Her open palm

recoils as though from flame, and Erin’s open face curls and swirls and distorts into Her cruel sneer, all shifting eyes and blankness

She lifts Her hand from her trembling body and sighs, and it is not as harsh as it should be from Her lips

and wet glimmers somewhere between them and she feels her chest suck back into itself, compress her lungs between slabs of stone and all their weight is crushing her now, gravity clawing at her from inside

 

_– Please let me love you –_

 

She is the only one who could ever love her

but Erin is not Her

 

_– Holtz? –_

 

and she is Holtz, now

she remembers

she is Holtz, and Erin is not Her

Holtz stares at Erin's hand resting near her paint-spattered pant leg, picks it up and curls the fingers in one by one and kisses the fist

brings it to her sternum, beneath the glint of her pendant, and presses the knuckles deep into the chasm there, bruising into the blood and bone until Erin's fingers scrape her oily heart and make it bleed

and she shakes her head, and pushes just enough

a test

she is not worthy and she does not deserve it

 

_– You're everything to me, Holtz –_

 

yet

 

so they dance, and they kiss, and Holtz shows Erin how much she loves her

and one day Erin kisses her neck and something feels a little different, the rhythm is not the same and Holtz's steps falter as Erin kisses the same spot, over and over, just below her ear

flicks her tongue and it tickles and Holtz huffs a tiny little laugh and she feels Erin's lips curve on her skin

a smile, like a little sun

and Erin's fingers clutch in her hair and Erin's teeth bare on her neck, not to snap shut fiercely, only to ask a question

Holtz places Erin's open palm against her chest, soft against her thunderous heartbeat and she says yes

and yes means yes

and Erin understands, always

Erin bathes with her clever tongue, soothes with kisses across her twitching limbs and heaving torso, journeys down her trembling flesh and stops between her legs and it is soft and slow and sharp and real and reality is never too much

and as Holtz comes beneath the kiss she knows it's what bliss feels like and she cries when she comes, unshackles her tongue and opens her lips, because Erin will hear her

more

more might mean a soft touch or a tender word or it might mean everything because she deserves everything, can have anything she wants

but all she wants is right there with her

 

_– Thank you, Holtz –_

 

they lie together, after, in the quiet, in the still

Holtz closes her eyes and lets herself drift out amongst the stars so full of energy and wonder, call stronger than the pull of emptiness ever was

a light scratch of a fingernail traces circles on her bare stomach, lips press gently on the curve of her breast, hair rustles over her arm, tickling and it is all the grounding she requires

there's a bright bloom behind her eyelids, pink and red, and a warm dawn glow creeping along her naked body, seeping into her pores

a bird outside, a jubilee

a garbage truck, a mere distant rumble of reality

almost a soothing sound, the lightest ripple over her eardrum, a gentle reminder of a world made safe

 

_– Did you take the garbage out, Holtz? –_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know what this really is.
> 
> I just write this shit, sometimes.


End file.
